


Spirits

by Kay_Drew



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:03:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kay_Drew/pseuds/Kay_Drew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While taking a stroll through a graveyard, some weird stuff happens. My first OUaT fic. Please R&R!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirits

Hallowed grounds can hold many dark and troubling secrets; you just have to be willing to listen. Neal didn’t. He could, of course. He had the ability to listen to the departed; he chose not to. It was easy enough – Neal just tuned them out. 

Tonight was no different. Spirits tried communicating with him as he wandered through a random New York cemetery – paper pad and pencil in hand. After a day of janitorial work, Neal enjoyed drawing a tombstone or two. It was his way to chill. 

Near a stunted elm tree, he found himself in the midst of the oldest memorials in the churchyard. Made from resilient limestone, the carvings, although weathered from decades of sky-born perspiration and gusting breezes, were far more intricate than those carved in the last twenty years. They were art pieces, not just slabs of ultra-shiny rock that looked shellacked. 

Passing by the pirate-themed marker, Neal smirked. His interest was piqued; he almost allowed its spirit to talk to him. What was that guy’s story? How’d a pirate get to NYC? 

Neal decided against calling the pirate. If he talked to one, they’d all want to have a chat. Besides, Neal wasn’t even sure he could just contact a spirit out of the blue; usually talked to him in dreams. He sure wasn’t going to go to sleep right now. 

Leaning against one of the stunted elms, he rested the sketch pad on his knee. Studying an intricate gravestone, he began to sketch the girl kneeling at the cross. The sculpture must have been a master in his craft. Each hair on the child’s head and every wrinkle in her dress was there. Neal would swear the figure would come alive at any moment. 

So engrossed in his work, the rustle of underbrush in front of Neal made him start. With a jerk of the head, he watched as a scraggy tom cat slunk between the wooden rungs of the decapitated fence. “Chill,” Neal whispered, running a hand through his dark hair before going back to work. 

A breeze picked up. Now he was surrounded by swishing leaves. The cat’s presence had broken the silence that had been present since he’d gotten there. Trying to ignore the noise, Neal went back to work even though his eyelids were getting heavy and his eyes were dry from tiredness. 

On the wind, he swore he heard his name softly called. Neal tried to ignore that, too. He swore that in the darkness someone watched him. That he ignored as well. Then, there was a chilling breath on his neck. He couldn’t ignore that. 

Turning his head, he saw the girl with her braids and rumpled dress. Mouth agape, no noise came from his lips as his feet moved as if of their own accord. In front of the stone cross, the girl pushed him down. With knees upon the stone, Neal was now a part of the cross. The girl was free.


End file.
